


The Precipice

by takethesky87



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Injured John, Injured Sherlock, Near Death, Serious Injuries, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethesky87/pseuds/takethesky87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock,” he says, but his voice is smothered by the waves. “Sherlock!” He shouts it this time, straining his ears for a reply. Nothing. Twice more he calls, his stomach clenching as each goes unanswered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Precipice

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired loosely by [this lovely drawing](http://kath-kwon.tumblr.com/post/75479984334) by [kath-kwon](http://kath-kwon.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

John coughs, sand gritted in his teeth. Leaning back, he snags his coat sleeve on a crag and winces as the fabric rips. 

“Damn,” he hisses. Somehow, sand has already rubbed into the cracked skin, stinging and burning. John pushes the pain to the back of his mind and, more carefully this time, reaches for the rocks on either side, hoisting himself upright.

The moment he puts weight on his left ankle, he collapses, toppling into another patch of rocks. John bites back a shout as he rams his side into a particularly sharp edge, fire searing through his abdomen. Gingerly, he rolls onto his hands and knees, clutching his middle until the throbbing fades. Breathing hard, he crawls away from the cliff face and toward the sea, skirting the body of the dead man to his right and the bloodstained sand surrounding him.

Just before the sand turns wet, John stops, twisting to face the cliffs, and looks around. The stars are dim, the sky moonless; the faintest trace of gray light beneath the horizon gives John little to see by. He blinks, hoping his eyes will adjust. But he sees nothing, and hears only the slow breaths of the tide as it comes in and goes out again. 

John clears his throat. “Sherlock,” he says, but his voice is smothered by the waves. “Sherlock!” He shouts it this time, straining his ears for a reply. Nothing. Twice more he calls, his stomach clenching as each goes unanswered.

John balls his hands into fists and tries again to stand. It takes three attempts and a lot of cursing, but eventually he makes it to his feet, balancing himself on his right foot. Must be a fracture, given how little weight his ankle can bear—he had hoped it was only a strain, but that seems unlikely now. John’s eyes search the side of the cliff, looking for evidence of their tumble down its crags. Nothing, except for the man lying dead. Instinctively, John touches his jacket pocket, relieved to feel his gun there, its barrel still warm.

Something in the corner of his eye catches John’s attention. He glances right, where the bluff juts out toward the sea—and notices a familiar silhouette, partially hidden by the curve of the cliff.

John’s breath hitches. He hobbles forward, ankle stinging with every step, yelling Sherlock’s name. A lifetime passes before John reaches him, panting and sweating and a little dizzy. Sherlock is sitting against the side of the bluff, legs splayed out in front of him, his head tilted upward. As John lands in an ungraceful heap at Sherlock’s side, Sherlock’s gaze follows him. The right side of his face is streaked with red; his lips are parted, his eyes half-lidded.

“I called for you,” Sherlock mumbles, voice flecked with indignation.

“Yeah, well, so did I.” John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands, turning him and brushing damp hair away from his ear. A deep gash runs along Sherlock’s temple, shiny with blood. John frowns, then meets Sherlock’s eyes. “Where else are you hurt?”

Sherlock groans. “Everywhere. My arm,” he relents, after John gives him a sharp look. “Also, I may have … I believe I cracked a rib.”

John takes a deep, even breath. “Think you can get your arm out of your coat for me?”

Sherlock nods, a faint dip of his head, and slowly pulls his left arm out of his sleeve. John reaches over him and helps him tug off the coat, then unbuttons Sherlock’s suit jacket as Sherlock closes his eyes, his face pale.

Gently, John slides Sherlock’s arm out of the jacket sleeve, until only his white button-down is left between John’s fingers and Sherlock’s skin. John investigates with steady hands, then reaches down to do the same across Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock gasps through his nose as John finds the broken rib. “Mercier?” he says, voice shuddering.

“Dead. I shot him.”

“Good.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. John leans back on his hands, catching his breath. Sherlock opens an eye and looks at him. “You alright?”

“Yeah, fine.” The bruises he collected on his way down the cliff are starting to ache, especially where he rammed his side into those rocks. His eyes drift to the sand surrounding them. “Did you drag yourself over here?”

Sherlock grunts in assent.

“You should’ve stayed put. The more you move, the more you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Was trying to find you,” Sherlock murmurs.

John smiles faintly at that. “Well, next time, stay put.” He looks around again. “Where’s your scarf?”

Sherlock’s shoulders lift, an echo of a shrug. John scoots backwards, peering down the way Sherlock came, until he sees the dark mound of fabric a few yards away. “Be right back,” he says, and crawls toward the scarf. Upon reaching Sherlock again, John wraps the scarf into a wad and presses it against Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock cringes, then lifts his good arm and holds the scarf to his head. John lets go and circles around to Sherlock’s other side, where there’s room for John to sit against the cliff. Having done that, he rummages in his pocket for his phone.

The screen is cracked, the case dented. John presses the switch to turn it on, but it’s no use. “Lovely,” John mutters. “Sherlock, have you got your phone?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John whips his head and finds Sherlock with his eyes closed, his arm dropped at his side and his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. 

“Oi!” John shouts, and Sherlock starts, eyes fluttering open. “You need to keep pressure on that wound, and you need to stay awake. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock places the scarf against his temple but doesn’t respond. John glares. “Do you hear me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock snaps.

He looks straight ahead, eyes fixed on the horizon, where blue melts into the earliest, golden signs of dawn. John sighs, rubs his face. “Is your phone in your coat pocket?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says again, softer this time. John searches for the pocket closest to him. “The other one,” says Sherlock, and with a huff John reaches over Sherlock’s lap, fumbling for the phone. Finding it, he settles back into his position at Sherlock’s side, turning Sherlock’s phone in his hand. 

His, miraculously, is not broken. John dials emergency and holds the phone to his ear, but no luck—no service. He tries a few other numbers and a text, but nothing goes through. John’s pulse pounds in his ears.

He looks at Sherlock, whose eyes are shut. “Hey,” he says, patting Sherlock’s hand. “Wake up.”

“Sod off,” Sherlock says without opening his eyes.

“Don’t be a git.”

“I don’t have a concussion, John.”

“You have no idea if that’s true or not.” He adjusts in his spot against the bluff. The bruises along his abdomen are starting to hurt more than his ankle. “You have an undifferentiated head injury and a fractured rib, which may mean internal bleeding. I won’t know until you’re in hospital. And until then, you’re not sleeping.”

“Sounds serious,” Sherlock says dryly.

_It’s extremely serious_ , John wants to say, but bites his tongue. “You should be lying down, you know, but I’m afraid to move you. I’m not sure I can lower you to the ground without dropping your head or something.”

“I dragged myself this far without any issues.”

“You should still lie down.”

“I’m not lying down,” Sherlock retorts. “If I do anything, it’s going to be getting up and heading toward that house.”

He points weakly with his injured arm. John looks to his left—far away down the coastline, the side of a cottage shimmers in the amber glow creeping above the sea. It must be miles away from them. John glances back at Sherlock. “You can’t walk in your condition.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Neither can you. But there’s nothing else to do.”

“I’ll walk there myself, and come back for you.”

Sherlock coughs out a laugh. “I’ll be dead before you get back.”

“Sherlock—”

“I am not going to spend my last hours sitting here, waiting for you to—like a, like a _lost puppy_ —”

“Sherlock!” John doesn’t mean to shout it, but he does, startling himself with the force of his own voice. Sherlock’s eyes return to their stubborn stare across the water. “You’re not going to die.”

“You said it yourself, John. Head injury, internal bleeding.”

“I can’t confirm how bad either of those things are.”

Sherlock twists his head to look at John. Blood glistens orange-red where it oozes beneath the scarf. The fabric, John notices, is black with wetness now. “I’m dizzy, lightheaded, and my vision is blurred. If I stand I will probably vomit. It hurts to breathe.” Sherlock’s mouth curls into a bitter smile. “What’s your diagnosis, doctor?”

John shakes his head, ignoring its buzz of anxious thoughts. “You’ve listed every reason why you shouldn’t stand.”

“Well, you’re not stopping me.” He stirs, bending his legs, dropping the scarf into his lap and easing his left arm back into his jacket and coat sleeves. When John makes a noise of protest, Sherlock silences him with a scowl.

John sighs. “You’re a bloody prat, you are.” Bracing himself against the side of the cliff, he manages to get up on the first try, though the shock of pain in his ankle and around his spleen leave him gasping for air. 

If Sherlock notices, he doesn’t say anything. Sherlock has stopped moving, head back and eyes closed, his lips and cheeks white. Fingers trembling, he offers his good arm to John.

John clasps Sherlock’s hand. “This is an absolutely horrible idea.”

“Shut up and help me.” John obliges, slipping his other hand beneath Sherlock’s armpit. After many curses, stumbles, and cries of pain, Sherlock is on his feet, however unsteadily. He leans against the cliff face for support, then turns and retches in the sand.

“Told you,” he coughs. 

John takes him by the shoulders and points him toward the cottage, the cliff on their left and the sea on their right. Draping Sherlock’s right arm around his neck, John loops his own left arm around Sherlock’s torso, low enough that he hopes to avoid the broken rib while still lending Sherlock support. Sherlock leans into him, his breaths shallow and rasping near John’s ear.

“I should never have made you come tonight,” Sherlock says quietly.

“You didn’t _make_ me do anything.” He takes an exploratory step forward, pressing into Sherlock when his ankle gives out. Sherlock’s grip around John’s shoulders stiffens, his feet following alongside John’s. “I wanted to come.”

“Mm.” 

A note of skepticism rings in Sherlock’s voice. John looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “I did. Besides, Mary and Elsie were having a night in with Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock gazes straight ahead. “That’s because I told Mrs. Hudson to ring Mary.”

John stops. Sherlock wobbles, nearly falling, but John tightens his grasp and holds him upright. “ _Ow_ ,” Sherlock hisses, cradling his abdomen with his bad arm. 

John sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Sherlock, we’ve been over this. You don’t need to resort to manipulation to see me.” He continues their plodding, three-legged walk. “Strange as it may seem, I do enjoy spending time with you. Best friend and all that.”

Sherlock remains silent. He is watching the sand now, concentrating on their feet as they trod between each other. The sun floats halfway above the waves, shining heat on John’s right side, the blood on Sherlock’s face vivid and glittering at the edge of John’s vision. 

“Damn,” John says under his breath.

“What now?” 

Their pace is snail-like, feet dragging trenches in the sand, but Sherlock’s breath rattles as though they were running a marathon.

“The scarf.” John twists his neck to look over his shoulder. “We left it back there.”

Sherlock’s fingers squeeze John’s jacket. “’S fine. Don’t need it. Not bleeding as much now.”

“You’re still bleeding quite a bit. You need something to—”

“John. We’re not going back.”

John sighs, then nods. If they turn around they’ll never go forward again. Carefully, he readjusts his arm around Sherlock’s middle and fixes his gaze on the cottage ahead.

“I bought Elsie a dictionary.”

John blinks. “You what?”

“Was trailing a suspect last week, ducked into a bookshop to avoid being seen.” He speaks determinedly, swallowing short breaths between words. “Her vocabulary needs work, you know.”

“Sherlock, she’s two. She barely knows the letters of the alphabet.”

“Then a dictionary would do her good.”

A dozen retorts surface to John’s mind, but he bites them back, thinking better of it. “Well, that’s—that’s kind of you, Sherlock,” he says instead. “Really. Thank you.”

“Doesn’t matter now.” Sherlock turns his head toward the sea, a few damp curls skimming John’s temple. “At this rate, I won’t be around to give it to her.” He pauses. “Nor will you.”

John stops again, Sherlock’s whole body shuddering as John’s forearm digs into Sherlock’s side. His panic, his fear, his thoughts of Mary and Elsie—everything John has been trying to bury threatens to consume him now, to drown him like the sea. John grinds his teeth, willing his heart to slow, and twists to face Sherlock. Sherlock wavers as John pulls away, but John clamps his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him still and glaring at him.

Sherlock returns the glare halfheartedly. The color in his skin and lips is gone, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and upper lip. Something catches in John’s throat at the sight of him, but he swallows it down with a grimace.

“You listen to me, Sherlock.” He burrows his fists into the shoulders of Sherlock’s coat. “We are not going to die. Not now, not here. We’ve made it through worse and we’ll make it through this, too. You hear me?”

Sherlock looks at him for a long time, eyes cloudy beneath heavy lids. At length, he mutters, “Your denial is insufferable.” 

“Not denial.” He draws to Sherlock’s side once more, wrapping Sherlock’s arm back around his shoulders. Sherlock presses into him, his weight heavier than before. “Optimism.”

Sherlock grunts his disapproval. John digs into his pocket and retrieves Sherlock’s mobile. One-handed, he tries emergency again. Then Mary’s number, and Lestrade’s. When none will connect, he types a clumsy text and sends it to everyone he can think of. God knows if the texts will go through, but he holds the phone in his hand and lets it keep trying. Sherlock mumbles something near John’s ear.

“What?”

“How far have we walked?”

John looks over his shoulder at the jagged trail they’ve left in the sand. He can still see the scarf. They’ve covered maybe a hundred yards, not even that. The cottage looms ahead like a mirage, no closer than it was an hour ago.

“A good ways,” John says. “We’re almost there.”

Sherlock seems to accept that. Can he even tell that John is lying? The question worries him far more than the ragged breaths rattling in Sherlock’s lungs. John slips the phone into his pocket and takes hold of the hand that hangs limply across John’s neck, soothing his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock dips his head, resting his bloodstained temple on John’s hair.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me. I can’t carry you on one foot.”

“Can’t carry me at all,” Sherlock murmurs. “Tried that once.”

“Yeah, and you were soaking wet. Your coat was heavy enough to be its own person. Doesn’t count.” He smiles, remembering. “See? We got out of that mess alright, didn’t we?”

Sherlock makes a noise in agreement. “Tell me what other messes we’ve got out of.”

_Keep me talking_ , John hears, and latches onto it. “Let’s see. We beat Moriarty, that’s a big one.”

“Twice,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Right. I think I preferred the second time around.”

“That’s because you got to shoot him.”

“Well.” He clears his throat. “That, and you didn’t jump off a roof.”

“Mm. Yes.” Sherlock’s breath is warm on John’s brow. “I was thinking about when we were locked up for impersonating the police.”

John laughs under his breath. “I still don’t understand why I ended up with Donovan’s badge. Couldn’t you have nicked an ID from a _male_ sergeant?”

“Was in a hurry.” John feels Sherlock’s mouth turn up, his cheek crinkling against John. “I haven’t pickpocketed Lestrade since that night. He’s too paranoid now.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

They both giggle. Sherlock turns his head as the laugh trails off into a cough, then a violent one, eyes glassy with tears as he clutches his chest. John stops and waits until Sherlock composes himself, rubbing what he hopes is a comforting hand across Sherlock’s back. Their fingers are still intertwined near John’s shoulder. John gives them a squeeze.

“I’m alright,” Sherlock says after a while, though clearly he isn’t, his voice quavering and his face ashen. Still, he takes a stubborn step forward. John sighs, and they begin their ungainly walk through the sand for a third time.

“The Blue Carnelian,” John continues, undeterred. “D’you remember that one? With the gemstone hidden inside that art installation. We found the thief, chased him through Brixton—”

“—and met his lovely friends,” Sherlock says. His voice is slow, deliberate. “Cornered in an alley. But you found us a way out.”

“That’s right. And I’ll do it again.”

“It’s not your determination that I doubt, John,” Sherlock says quietly.

John squares his jaw. “I’ll get us home, Sherlock. Don’t you worry.”

Sherlock says nothing. They walk in silence, John searching his memories for more stories—but all he can think about is the blood Sherlock spit up during his spell a few moments ago, and the pounding ache in John’s side each time he takes a step. The sun casts a long shadow, and if John looked to his left he would see their silhouette upon the cliff face, a mangled figure with too many limbs. But he trains his eyes forward, memorizing the pattern of the cottage’s tiled roof and the feel of Sherlock’s fingers among his own.

“What experiment were you working on?” John asks. When Sherlock doesn’t answer, John nudges him in the shoulder. “When I came round the flat, you were working on something. What was it?”

Sherlock hums through his nose. From the corner of his eye, John watches as Sherlock’s brow knits together. “Iron,” he says at length, as though it takes him that long to remember. “In the blood.”

“What about it, then? What did you find?”

He waits for a response but doesn’t get one. John bites his lip and tries another tactic. “Iron. That’s … hmm. Twenty-fourth element on the periodic table, isn’t it?”

“Twenty-sixth,” Sherlock says.

“Really? I thought the twenty-sixth was nickel. Doesn’t it go: magnesium, iron, copper, nickel …”

“Manganese, iron, cobalt,” Sherlock mutters, and behind his exasperation John hears, _You know the bloody periodic table, John_.

John smiles at the familiar tone. “Yes, that’s right. I guess I’m rusty. Let me think. Hydrogen is the first, obviously, then helium, beryllium—”

“ _Lithium_ ,” Sherlock says, the condescension nearly palpable. He mumbles under his breath.

“Sorry?”

“Know what you’re doing.”

“Haven’t the faintest what you mean. Go on, then.” John clears his throat. “Hydrogen, helium, lithium …”

“Beryllium,” Sherlock sighs, “boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen …”

He continues through the periodic table, his voice soft and distant beneath the crash of waves. John’s mind wanders where it shouldn’t, to the day last year when Sherlock tried to teach Elsie the elements, her eyes wide, her tiny fingers hooking into Sherlock’s mouth as he spoke. She was only just learning to talk— _dog_ had been her first word, of all things—but Sherlock was convinced he could add a few scientific terms to her vocabulary. That’s how John and Mary had left them that night: Elsie on Sherlock’s hip, his face close to hers, her fingers in his mouth. At breakfast the next morning, Elsie kept repeating _goat, goat, goat_ into her cereal, and not until the afternoon did John and Mary realize that she was trying to say _gold_.

“John,” Sherlock whispers.

John blinks, his eyes wet, and tightens his grip over Sherlock’s fingers. “What is it?”

“John,” Sherlock says again, his head drooping. He stumbles. John stumbles with him, a whimper escaping him as his ankle bears both their weight. Sherlock’s knees buckle—John, his balance gone, follows him to the ground, crying out as they collide. Sand sprays into John’s nostrils and mouth, sending him into a coughing fit that sets fire to his belly. Curling into himself, he squeezes his eyes shut and waits an eternity for the heaving to subside. Once it does, he tastes blood; opening his eyes, he sees bright red flecks mingling with the sand surrounding him.

_Shit_ , John thinks, and struggles to his knees, one arm still clinging to his stomach.

Sherlock lies facedown and motionless next to him. “Sherlock,” John croaks, “Sherlock, can you hear me?” He grabs Sherlock’s shoulders and rolls him onto his back, John’s whole body screaming with the effort. Sherlock’s head lolls to the side, exposing the gash on his temple, smeared now with sand and dirt. His eyes are closed, the skin beneath them a sickly color. “Jesus,” John says, wiping away the sand around the cut with clammy fingers. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock’s lips move. Heart pounding, John leans over him, angling his ear toward Sherlock’s mouth.

“Mercury,” he breathes, “thallium …”

A laugh bubbles out of John. “You’re a bloody miracle, you are,” he says, sweeping away a lock of Sherlock’s hair. “Okay. Right.” He needs to clean the cut on Sherlock’s temple, find some way to stop the blood loss. John scoots away and shrugs off his jacket, then unbuttons his shirt, peeling it off until he’s down to his vest. Rolling the button-down into a ball, he debates how long it’ll take to get to the water and back.

John hesitates, peering down. Then, gingerly, he slides up the hem of his vest and looks at himself.

The skin is purple, one massive bruise across the whole of his abdomen, firm to the touch. _Heavy internal bleeding_ , his mind warns him, but John shakes his head. “One thing at a time,” he says to himself, tucking his button-down under his arm and gazing toward the sea.

Something in the sand catches his eye. It’s Sherlock’s phone—must have fallen out of John’s pocket when they hit the ground. John crawls a few feet and snatches it, turning it over to glance at the screen.

He freezes, staring at it.

“Sherlock,” John says. His eyes are glued to the screen, unbelieving. “Sherlock, the text went through.” His fingers tap furiously, navigating through menus until three unread texts appear. 

One is from Lestrade, the second from Mary. John crumples at the sight of her name, something breaking in him, all the worry and fear in her message forcing a strangled sob out of his throat. Shaking, he reads the third text, time-stamped to seven minutes ago.

_We have your location. Transportation and medical help are on their way. Keep my brother safe until then, John._

John expels a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Dazed, he crawls back to Sherlock’s side, leaning over him.

Sherlock’s lips are still moving soundlessly. Letting go of the phone, John takes Sherlock’s head in both his hands, turning him until he is facing forward. “Sherlock,” John says, trailing a thumb over his unblemished cheek. “Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock’s eyes drift open, heavy-lidded. His pupils constrict in the blaze of the morning sun. “We’re going to be okay,” John says, smiling at him. “The text went through. Mycroft’s sending help. You hear me? We’re going to be okay.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth rises, almost imperceptibly. That’s enough for John. He slides back into the sand, ankle smarting, stomach throbbing, and a wave of exhaustion crashes over him. He feels dizzy suddenly, as though seasick, but he clenches his teeth and picks up his button-down shirt again. “I’m going to get this wet,” he says to Sherlock, “and then I’ll come back and clean you up a bit. Okay?”

He begins to shuffle away toward the sea, squinting against the sun, swaying on his knees. But something tugs at the edge of his vest. John looks behind him. Sherlock’s arm is stretched out, reaching, his head angled toward John and lips opening and closing.

John turns and heads back to Sherlock, lowering his ear. “What is it?”

“Stay,” he rasps.

John shakes his head. “I’ll only be a minute. Your head doesn’t look good, I need to get as much of that sand out of the wound before it—”

“ _Stay_.” He gropes for John’s hand and, finding it, latches on with feeble fingers. “Please.”

Warmth swells beneath John’s ribs. He finds himself nodding. “Alright,” he says, and presses Sherlock’s fingers to his chest, squeezing them. “Alright. I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s still dizzy, the sun lurching in his vision like a pendulum. John eases himself back, lying down next to Sherlock, folding both hands around the cold fingers against his sternum. The sand is cool along the back of his neck and arms.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says again. “We’ll get out of this mess, Sherlock. You and me. We’ll be okay.”

“Mm,” Sherlock murmurs, lacing his fingers with John’s. 

John smiles. Listening to the waves, he holds onto Sherlock’s hand with all the strength he has left and gazes at the sky. Somewhere, he thinks he hears the whirr of helicopter blades.

“Not going anywhere,” John whispers, and closes his eyes.


End file.
